Seven Days
by Jarlaxle Baenre
Summary: Post Shadow of the Giant. Petra still grieves for Bean, but is it possible she could love someone else? What if she and the great Hegemon whom once she hated were thrown together in a fix? Summary sucks, but I promise the story is better. PetraPeter.


A/N: I just finished Shadow of the Giant for the umpteenth time, and I realized what it's lacking. It goes straight from Bean leaving Earth to Petra being seventy and married to Peter. Don't get me wrong, I like Petra/Peter almost as much as Petra/Bean, but it needed a transition. Another book or something. So I'm compensating with a short story. I hope it'll only be five or six chapters because I don't have time to write a fully fledged novel. Unfortunately. So read, enjoy if you can, and review regardless of how much you do.

Disclaimer: I think I'll just let you go on believing it's mine…

Big, dark eyes stared up at her from under locks of cascading black hair. They were bright eyes, full of life and laughter, eyes that were the eyes of innocence… the eyes of a child.

They're two and a half years old now, Petra thought. Brilliant children, the lot of them. She stroked Bella's curls, murmuring softly to her that it was time to go to sleep. Bella had lately decided that she was going to stay up until Mommy went to bed every night. Unfortunately for her, Petra didn't agree with this idea. So Bella still had to go to bed at eight-thirty, right along with Ramón and Julian and Poke and Andrew. Not that Andrew actually went to sleep, but at least he had the decency to pretend he did.

Despite her protests that "Bella not tired. Bella can stay 'wake lif Mommy," she could not keep her eyes open. She kept determinedly jerking awake, but gradually, with patient murmurings from her mother, she slipped into the realm of dreams.

Quietly, Petra laid her daughter into the empty crib in the room on the left. She stood there thoughtfully, watching Bella roll over in her sleep to find a comfortable position.

Every night, she thought. Every night, I put them to sleep and then I go lie in bed. But I don't sleep. Because the hours I spend in bed are the hours I spend with their brothers and sisters, in my mind with my three other children.

With their father.

Petra wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed gently. Every night, the tears were there, but they usually didn't come. Every night, she fought them back.

She was tired of fighting.

"Petra?" said a soft voice in the doorway.

Petra whirled, hurriedly wiping away the tears. She hated crying, or at least, she hated other people seeing her crying. "Hello, Peter," she whispered hoarsely.

She could tell by his expression that he hadn't realized that she was crying. It was dim in the room, but she could see the feelings that flashed across his face. First embarrassed surprise, then pity, then a gentle understanding. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head, wiping away the tears that refused to cease. "They're all asleep, except for Andrew. I got them to bed alright."

"I meant, is there anything I can do for you?"

A sob tore itself out of her throat, and she covered her mouth with the back of her hand. She couldn't speak.

Peter approached her slowly and put his arms around her shoulders. She let him hug her, let him comfort her, let him tell her it was alright, even though it wasn't.

"Come outside," he urged. "Take a walk. It'll help."

She couldn't even squeak past the lump in her throat, let alone argue, so she let him lead her out into the vast gardens that surrounded the hegemony compound. The sun had long ago left the sky, leaving it a deep black scattered with stars. Peter led her along the paths into the depths of the garden, where they wouldn't be disturbed.

Petra sank onto a bench beside a trickling stream and stopped trying to stem her tears. It wasn't as though her attempts had succeeded so far, and anyway, she didn't have to be ashamed. Her tears were justified.

Peter was pacing along the bank of the stream, slowly, pensively. After a moment, he said, "I'm sorry, Petra. I can't pretend to know how you feel." He paused, and a pained expression flashed over his face. "The only people I've ever lost, I never learned to love until after they had gone. But I can see your pain and I'm sorry for it."

She didn't answer, instead staring at Peter's back as he gazed at the stream. Graff had rejected him from Battle school because he was too violent, too ambitious. Petra _had_ seen that side of him, but often—more often—she saw this side of him, this gentle side, this loving side, this tender, understanding, merciful side. He was a better man than Graff gave him credit for.

"Peter," she whispered.

"Mmm?"

She paused. "Thank you."

There was a muffled wail from the direction of Petra's home. "Poke," she said, standing up and wiping away her tears.

"You can tell from this far away?"

"I'm a mother. I'd be able to tell if I were in China."

They opened the back door and entered quietly. So quietly, in fact, that she heard the click that she hadn't heard in a year and a half. Someone had cocked a gun.

Her first thought was that an unexpected click in the dark was so cliché and melodramatic that it should be punishable by law. Her second thought was to remember that her children were in the rooms just down the hall. Her third thought was not to panic.

"What do you want?" she asked calmly as Peter grasped her elbow, a warning in case she hadn't realized what was in the shadows of the room: namely, a man with a gun.

Something moved in front of her as her eyes adjusted to the dark, and the figure emerged into a thin ray of moonlight that cut across his face. Petra found herself face to face with the last person in the world she expected to see.

Volescu.

There were others in the room, moving around her, Volescu's henchmen, she guessed. How he had obtained his freedom, let alone the power and money to have henchmen at his disposal, Petra had no idea. She could barely hear them, but she knew they were there, and she subconsciously mapped their locations. Her conscious mind, however, was focused on one thought: Volescu held a gun in his hand, and he stood between her and her children.

Someone flicked on the light, and she blinked, trying to get her eyes to adjust once more. It would not due to be blinded in the presence of people with guns. Two guns, she noticed, were pointed at Peter's head. He ignored them, gazing warningly at Petra. She knew what he was thinking: that she would do something brazen and reckless. Petra acknowledged his warning by meeting his gaze. Did he think that she didn't know there were probably more men in the babies' rooms? Did he think she would endanger their lives out of motherly instinct?

Would she?

Volescu approached her slowly, not lowering the gun from pointing at her head. "What do you think I want?"

She didn't answer.

"Where are the children?"

Poke was still wailing from her room. She had no doubt as to what had awoken her. "I daresay you've already found them."

"You know what I mean," he snarled. "The others?"

"What others? There are five in there, and at least three of them are asleep. I haven't hidden any."

"The ones with your husband's condition."

"There weren't any."

"Don't lie to me."

Petra smirked. "Is that a threat?"

"Mr. Wiggin," Volescu snapped without taking his eyes off Petra, "call for a helicopter."

"How do you expect to get out without getting arrested or shot?" he demanded.

"Because you're going to tell them that we have brought news of something urgent, and that you have to leave a few days."

"You seem awfully sure of my cooperation."

He leered and stepped up to Petra, pressing the pistol into her stomach. Peter winced. Volescu grinned up at him. "I am."

"He won't kill me, Peter," she said. She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

Peter didn't respond for a moment. "Yes," he said slowly, "he will."

She looked at him sharply.

"He'll kill you," Peter continued, "because he has nothing to lose. He's already been sentenced to prison for life."

"Smart Hegemon," Volescu remarked dryly. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, call for a chopper, and make certain it is unattended except for a pilot."

Peter pulled his cell off his belt, not taking his eyes off Volescu. He pressed the speed-dial. "Suriyawong," he said, "ready a chopper and have it outside the Delphiki residence. Don't put a guard on it this time. Don't argue, and don't question me. It's urgent."

He paused for a moment. "Thank you, Suri. The creator turns on his own."

He flipped his cell phone shut and placed it on the table. "It'll be here in ten minutes."

"Were are you taking us?" Petra demanded.

"Out of reach. You may want to call a nurse, Mrs. Delphiki."

She looked at him sharply. "You're not taking my children?"

"I think it's sufficient leverage to plant one of my men here with a cell phone and a viral poison. That'll be your incentive to behave."

"Why do you need me? I don't have Bean's condition."

He didn't answer. None of this made sense to Petra. If he wanted to experiment with Anton's Key, then wouldn't it make more sense to take the children of the only man with it turned? Why would she be important to his research and not her children? And why was he kidnapping Peter as well? Surely that would only add complications, as he would have all the nations in the FPE out for his blood…

"And you're kidnapping the Hegemon. That's not going to go unnoticed for very long."

"By that time, we'll be long gone."

Petra felt a jolt of shock—_long gone_: did that mean space? She would never see her children again. A year in space would encompass all the years of their lives. She didn't let Bean go only to be wrenched away from her children anyway.

"Who's backing you?" Peter demanded.

"Dear me, such impudence from an adolescent," Volescu said mockingly. "However shall we punish him?"

Even by normal standards, Peter was hardly an adolescent any longer. Petra was twenty, which would make Ender, had he been on earth, nineteen; therefore, Peter must be twenty-one or twenty-two. He used to be a boy, but that had changed. He was a man, and had been for a while now.

Volescu had a knife in his hand, and he sauntered towards Peter. The Hegemon winced as the blade tickled the base of his chin, but he did not draw back. It was a mark of her respect for him that she attributed this to his courage rather than to the two men who held him immovable in a grip of iron. Volescu leered at him.

"Your election as Hegemon reveals the stupidity and naiveté of the human race," he said derisively.

"The average man is not an idiot," Peter said calmly. "He can make his own decisions."

"And so they elected you. You see, Wiggin, they bought your charade. Sure, you're a genius, but there's one thing you lack, something that's far more important than intelligence. Do you know what that is?"

"Enlighten me."

"You lack wisdom, Peter. Wisdom. You a have knowledge, sure enough, but you haven't applied it. You're too young to have any experience. And that makes you just as stupid and a lot cockier than they."

"That seems to be where our views differ," Peter said conversationally, pulling away from his captors and dusting off his sleeves. "You think that humans are inherently nefarious and vindictive and animalistic. You think that they are selfish, and therefore only act in the best interests of humanity when it is also in the best interests of themselves. Therefore, the smart people—the wise people, as you put it—must make the decisions for them. Which is why you want to make the entire race like Julian Delphiki was. So that they won't be stupid, even if they have to breathe like vermin."

"Precisely," he breathed, digging the knife deeper.

Peter gasped as the blade pierced his skin and a drop of red blood began its way down his neck, but he continued anyway. "I, however," he said in a strained voice, "believe that man can be trusted. That humans are inherently _good,_ that the world should be run by all of its inhabitants equally, not by one or two men alone."

"Which is why you are so naïve," Volescu said, sneering. "You lack the experience to know that people are selfish and animalistic. Until you can accept that, you can never truly unite this world."

"So you want an oppressive totalitarian government with _you_ at its head."

Volescu scoffed. "_I_ don't want to run it."

"Oh, that's right," Peter said mockingly, "you're the rat, the one who hides behind the scenes and lets other people do his dirty work. I'm surprised your kidnapping us yourself."

Volescu's knife flashed, and Peter cried out, his hand flying to his face. A long, nasty-looking gash had appeared, stretching from his left temple, across his lips, to the right side of his jaw. Petra stepped forward angrily, but then Volescu's gun was trained on her again. He turned from Peter. "Don't move, Mrs. Delphiki, unless you want your brains blown out."

"Achilles was the last person who said that to me, and he got _his_ brains blown out."

"Your husband isn't here to save you this time. Not after he was blown to bits."

"You're out of your league, Volescu," Peter said. "You won't last long, not against every country in the FPE. You can't kidnap the Hegemon and expect to get away with it."

"There are forces out there of which you have you idea," Volescu hissed.

"The chopper's here," Peter remarked dryly, hearing the beating of blades against the night air. Petra thought he looked almost like a corpse: pale, with blood running down his face… she shuddered. He was not someone she wanted to end up dead.

Volescu returned his gaze to the Hegemon. "You'll kindly lead the way out, and you give any hint that something's wrong, neither you nor Petra will make it out alive. Remember, all of my men have guns pointed at your backs."

"Comforting," Petra said dryly.

"Where are you taking us?" Peter demanded again.

Volescu shrugged. "Do you really think I would tell you? Doesn't the bad guy always whisk his noble prisoners off to a mysterious place and keep it a secret?"

Peter grumbled a reply, and, with a nudge from the barrel of a gun, led the way outside.

The helicopter was waiting a few hundred meters from Petra's house, it's blades beating the air furiously. There was no guard, just as Peter had requested.

Volescu offered Petra his hand to help her up into the helicopter, but she ignored it and stepped up herself. Peter followed close behind her. The man who sat at the controls looked confused when other unknown men got on with the Hegemon, but Peter told him to take off, and he did so without question.

As soon as they were no longer above the hegemony complex, high enough and far enough that no one would be able to see anything that transpired inside the chopper, Volescu shot the pilot in the head without warning. Before the craft could spin out of control, one o his men yanked the body out of its seat and took up the controls. Volescu turned his gun back on Peter.

"There was one thing they wanted in exchange for the funding they're giving me," ehe said, reloading the pistol calmly. "Do you want to know what that was?"

"You want to tell me, so I doubt I have much choice in the matter," Peter said, trying to staunch the flow of blood from the wound on his face with his shirt.

"They wanted you dead."

"Big surprise," Peter remarked. "Most people who don't belong to the FPE want me dead these days."

"However," Volescu continued leisurely, "_I _don't."

Peter arched his eyebrows. "That _is_ a surprise."

Volescu shrugged. "What good would you do me dead?"

"The question most people ask is: 'what harm could he do me alive?'"

The scientist laughed. "I did ask that, and, as of twenty minutes ago, the answer is 'none.'"

"Not until I'm free, at least."

"You seem awfully confident that you will be."

"You're going to have all the countries of the FPE out for your blood. They'll find us."

"No, they won't," Volescu sneered.

"Which brings us back to the question: where are you taking us?"

Volescu said something to his men in Russian, which neither Peter nor Petra spoke. They exchanged glances. Peter's countenance was calm and emotionless, but his eyes revealed his anxiety. He smiled shakily at her.

One of the guards seized her arms and clamped a set of handcuffs over her wrists. Another did the same to Peter.

"Is this really necessary?" Petra asked. "You have my children held hostage miles away, and yet you insist on restraining our hands?"

"I don't want to take any chances," he said genially. "I'm not going to underestimate either of you."

Peter sighed as they forced him to sit on the floor at the back of the chopper. "You _have_ underestimated us," he said quietly. "You don't know what you're dealing with. Not to sound cliché or anything, but you're never going to get away with this."

"So you've said," Volescu remarked dryly, and he gave his guards another command in Russian. One of them stepped forward and gagged Peter violently. He retched as it was forced into his mouth and tightened brutally. Petra jerked; the more effective a gag was, the higher chance it had of suffocating its victim.

A long, painful hour later, they arrived wherever it was they were going. Volescu conversed once again in Russian, then pointed the gun at her, sliding the catch into position.

"I'm sorry," he said condescendingly, "but I'm going to have to shoot you."


End file.
